


Shaking Comes The Rain

by DoubleScript



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Magic Stiles, PTSD Stiles, Underage Drinking, guilt over Alison's death, post-3B
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:10:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3276194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoubleScript/pseuds/DoubleScript
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A weekend trip lasts all summer after Derek tries to help Stiles deal with the guilt he harbors over Alison's death. Friends are made, lives are changes, and senior year couldn't look more dull.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Band-Aids Don't Fix Bullet Holes

**Author's Note:**

> A/N - This is my first attempt at a non-drabble fic. Kindness is appreciated!

 

_Stiles stands in the shower with his head tilted back, letting the hot stream work the knots out of his muscles. He knows the pack is downstairs waiting for him, but he can't bring himself to give up this moment of peace. He can hear Scott coming up the steps, shouting for Alison. Stiles opens his eyes and turns to shut off the shower, but he freezes. He's bathing in blood, the hot sticky mess covering his body, lathered in his hair, and he doesn't need to guess who's it is. He can see the outline of her body through the curtain, lifeless on his bathroom floor. Stiles rips back the shower curtain, a bloody hand print now staining the once white plastic. Alison's dead eyes stare up at him accusingly and he tries to scream but nothing comes out._

When Stiles woke up screaming, his dad holding on to him desperately like he'd done every night for the past two months, he whispered an apology and locked himself in the bathroom. John didn't blame the pack for what happened to Stiles, no more than he could blame Stiles for Alison's death. He did, however, blame them for the way Stiles tried to hide how much he was suffering. He blamed them for the way Stiles stopped crying and letting his dad comfort him after these nightmares, taking to a whispered apology and quick retreat instead. John blamed his son's friends for forgetting that he was human, and he was hurting too.

For the first few weeks after Alison's death the pack had taken up residents at the Stilinski home. Scott would often be found sleeping on the couch, Kira having to wake him and make sure he ate. Derek would stop by every day to check on them and bring food, which John was grateful for because he sure as hell couldn't feed a pack of werewolves, depressed or not. Lydia was the hardest for John to face. She would move through the house like a hurricane, barking orders for Scott to get up and for Derek to take control of the situation. It was hard for John to face her because he knew how hard she cried when she'd finally reach Stiles room. He saw how hard those two broken kids clung to each other when they'd cry themselves to sleep. Sometimes John wondered if Lydia was the only one who knew how much pain his son was in. Isaac was the only one who never came around; he was always with Chris Argent. Nobody was surprised when, after the funeral, he moved to France with Chris.

John had become used to seeing all of them, had become used to calling their parents when they fell asleep to let them know where their children were. When Scott stopped sleeping so much and began going out again, John was happy for him. When he stopped finding Lydia curled up in his son's bed, he smiled at the thought that they were all starting to heal. Derek kept dropping off food though, and he wasn't really sure why until the first night Stiles woke him up screaming.

It had been two months since then and John would be forever grateful for the meals Derek would leave them. Not having to cook meant that he could sleep for a few hours after he got home, which would likely be the only sleep he got that night. He could never go back to sleep after Stiles woke him up, too afraid of what he would find in the morning if he did.

It had been over a month since Scott had come by, and when he asked Stiles he was always met with the same shrug and vague answer that he had other things to do. He wasn't stupid, he knew that Stiles was depressed and probably isolating himself from the pack. But, why did they let him? Why was nobody concerned that Stiles was flying on autopilot and ignoring pack meetings? Then Stiles started apologizing for his nightmares and John had the sinking feeling he knew why. Maybe he wasn't going to pack meetings anymore because he wasn't pack. Maybe they blamed Stiles just as much as he blamed himself.

 

* * *

 

The final bell rang and everyone rushed to get out of Beacon Hill's High School, the last day of their junior year finally coming to an end. Stiles had just made it to his jeep when he heard a familiar voice calling his name.

“Yo, Stiles! Wait up, man!” Scott was sprinting up beside him, Kira and Lydia flanking him further back. “We're all going to Lydia's tonight to celebrate. You're coming, right?”

Once upon a time, Stiles would have jumped at the chance to go to Lydia Martin's End-Of-The-Year party, but if he was being honest he really didn't feel like partying tonight. Scott must have sensed the excuse coming because his puppy dog eyes came out and his shoulders slumped forward.

“Come on, man. You can't keep locking yourself in your room. The Bestiary can wait for one night!” The fact that Scott honestly believed that Stiles was locking himself in his room to work on the Bestiary hurt Stiles more than he cared to admit. It was a paper thin excuse he'd been using, and part of him wanted Scott to call him out on it, but he also knew that Scott was the master of denial and if he didn't want to see something no force on earth could make him. Stiles understands though; it's hard to look at your best friend and see the face of the man who killed your first love, it's hard to see him dealing with the depression that killing her caused.

Stiles shakes his head and smiles weakly, “Maybe we can meet up later.” He doesn't give Scott time to protest before getting in his jeep and backing out of the parking lot.

When Stiles got home there was a tray of lasagna sitting on the kitchen counter. He grabbed a plate and plopped it in the microwave before sitting down to catch up on some research. Exhaustion was making it hard to concentrate though, and Stiles hadn't realized he was beginning to doze off until the phone rang and he startled back to consciousness.

“Hey Dad, what's up?”

There was sigh on the other end of the line, Stiles knew what that meant. “Sorry son, I probably won't be home till ten. Are you going to Lydia's party?”

“I wasn't planning on it, why?” Stiles really didn't want to know how his dad knew about the party.

“I just thought maybe it would be fun. Well look, if you decide to go, just remember to leave a note. Love you, kiddo.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The Twilight Zone had nothing on how Stiles was feeling right now. His dad, the Sheriff, not only condoned his underage son going to a party where there is sure to be alcohol, but encouraged it? Maybe Scott tipped him off, made some promises that he wouldn't let him drink or something. Yeah, that had to be it.

Stiles was still thinking about the odd exchange when he shut his eyes, just for a second, and exhaustion consumed him again. 

_“Hurry up, Stiles! You're going to be late!” His dad shouted from the bottom of the steps. Stiles was playing first line tonight and the pride his dad felt could be heard even when he was yelling at him to get his ass moving._

_Stiles grabbed his lacrosse bag off his bed and rushed to the school, making it to locker room just in time. Coach was trying to hype the team up with his backhanded compliments and everybody was getting their game face on. Stiles opened his bag to get his gear out, but instead of pulling out his helmet he had a first full of hair. The room went silent and everyone's eyes went wide. His dad was standing in the doorway of the locker room, grief stricken, and whispered, “Stiles....what have you done?”_

_He was holding Alison's head._

Stiles was alone and crying when he woke up on the couch, images of Alison's dead body forcing themselves into the forefront of his mind. His dad wouldn't be home for a couple hours still, and the anger and grief Stiles had was overwhelming. He picked up the nearest thing and threw it hard against the room, screaming as loud as his lungs allowed. The remote crashed against the wall and Stiles repeated the process, throwing everything in his path and shouting all his frustrations into the empty house. His dad's whiskey was sitting out still, probably from last night when Stiles woke him up screaming. He had it in his hand, but instead of throwing it he brought the bottle to his lips and drank. The golden liquid burned so good and snapped Stiles out of the violent rage he was in. Eventually he couldn't feel the burn anymore and the bottle was empty. He couldn't remember the last time he drank this much, it was possible he never had. The house felt too constricting and the air too stuffy, so Stiles headed out the backdoor toward the treeline. The light from the full moon illuminated the dark woods enough for him to see where he was going, but it also fueled the anger Stiles was battling. He knew it was silly to be angry at the moon, but it was something tangible he could direct his anger at, something everyone could see.

After he had stumbled through the woods for what felt like hours a shadow caught his eye in the distance. It was getting closer and closer and he knew he should run, but then it shouted his name and he knew that voice.

“Derek? Why are you stalking me in the woods? That's fucking creepy, man.” Stiles tried to sound as sober as possible, but he knew that Derek would have smelled the alcohol long before he opened his mouth. It was taking all his effort not to fall over, gravity seemed to be pulling him to the left.

“I'm not stalking you, Stiles. You walked to my house. I can't believe you of all people would walk through these woods on a full moon! You smell like a damn brewery and might as well have an 'Eat Me' sign plastered on your forehead! Did you not think about the danger you were putting yourself in? About the things that are hiding in these woods right now?” Derek was pointing sharply toward the darkness, like that was supposed to scare him. Stiles chuckled humorlessly and shook his head.

“You think I'm supposed to be scared of the big bad wolf?” Stiles staggered closer to Derek and tried to posture himself, “I wish they would find me. You want to warn people about the danger lurking in the woods?” Stiles voice was picking up volume and quivering when he shouted, “WARN THEM OF ME! I am the most dangerous thing out here right now! Oh, don't worry about Stiles, he's not a threat! No, not until I SHOVE A FUCKING SWORD THROUGH YOUR STOMACH!” It took him a minute to realize he was sobbing, his knees beginning to give out on him. Derek didn't try to tell him it wasn't his fault. He didn't try to tell him that the Oni killed Alison. In fact, he didn't hear Derek say anything as he picked him up and carried him into his house. Stiles was vaguely aware of being placed on Derek's couch, and he might have heard him say something about a bucket being next to him, but then he passed out.

The sun was too bright and Stiles tried to bury his face into the leather couch to shield himself from the light. He could hear Derek moving around in the kitchen, he sounded like he was on the phone.

“I know how it sounds, but you have my word that he'll be okay.” There was a pause and then he continued, “He's waking up now, I should go.” Another pause, “Thank you sir.”

Stiles head was pounding and his stomach felt like it was trying to secede from the rest of his body. Thank god there was a bucket next to the couch because there's no way he would have made it to the bathroom before vomiting like a frat boy after rush week. Suddenly there was a hand resting on his back, and when he finally caught a breath he managed to ask, “Who were you talking to?”

“I called your father last night after you got here. He was calling to see how you were doing.”

“Shit. He's probably freaking out. I'm so grounded.” Stiles groaned, finally feeling settled enough to lay back down. 

Derek snorted and lifted Stiles's legs so he could sit at the other end of the couch, hand coming to rest casually on his shin. “You're lucky, that's all I'm going to say. Go back to sleep.”

Under normal circumstances Stiles would have found Derek's behavior strange, but he was still a little drunk and a lot hungover. But, now that he thought about it, he was feeling a lot better. His eyes had barely shut before sleep was setting in again, and he didn't notice the black veins creeping up Derek's arm.

Derek pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts before selecting the one called Rebecca. The line rang a few times before a young girl answered.

“It's Derek Hale. I'm coming up with a friend later – human – make sure the pack knows.”

 

 


	2. I Know Places We Can Hide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares, old friends, and half-truths prove that, no matter where they run, Beacon Hills will always find a way to torture them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N So...I suck at summaries.  
> BIG Thank you to everyone who read the first chapter.  
> Chapter 3 is mapped out already, so it should be up by Sunday.  
> Comments, Kudos, and Subscribes make me smile <3

The sun had set by the time Stiles finally managed to open his eyes. God, he had never been so sick in his life. Not even that time Scott gave him the stomach virus in second grade. Derek was sleeping at the end of the couch, head tilted back in what had to be an uncomfortable position, werewolf or not. He tried to shimmy his legs out of Derek's grip, a flush creeping up at the thought of his actions the previous night. His only consolation was that he could sneak out and return home, tail between his legs, and never face the brooding alpha again. But just as his hand reached for the doorknob he noticed the wrench in his plan; his jeep was still at his house, on the other end of town.

“Sit. We're leaving soon.” Derek clipped from his lazy position on the couch. It mirrored the way Stiles's dad had started sleeping, like he didn't have time to actually lay down. It stung to know that he was the reason they both slept with their eyes closed and ears open.

“Don't worry about it, I can call my dad.” He really hoped Derek was too tired to pick up on the fear that bubbled up just thinking about calling the sheriff.

A black duffel bag slid across the floor toward Stiles, the bright yellow BHHS patch catching his eye.

“Dude, are you kidnapping me?” he asked incredulously, moving forward to inspect the contents of his stolen bag.

Derek snorted, and if Stiles didn't know any better he'd say there was genuine amusement there, “Your dad thinks you could use some time away from Beacon Hills. I happen to have a cabin in Oregon that needs to be cleaned out. We're taking a road trip.”

If Stiles focused on the part where Derek was using him as free labor to clean out this cabin in Oregon, the whole thing seemed believable. However, part of him wondered if Derek's out of character behavior since everything happened was due to some feeling of obligation toward the remaining human member of the pack. Maybe he needed to take care of Stiles to make up for whatever guilt he felt over not being able to protect Alison. Another much smaller part of him felt bad for questioning why Derek was being kind. Stiles knew better than to think he was emotionless, but it was a universal fact that Derek Hale did not do _feelings_. He was gruff and rude and dry, and he did not drop off trays of lasagna with extra cheese just the way Stiles likes.

“Any reason we're waiting to hit the road then?” Stiles zipped up his bag and positioned it back against the couch, unsure of whether the twist in his stomach was from the alcohol or from his nerves.

Derek's eyebrows shot up and he fixed Stiles with a stare that clearly said he was questioning his intelligence, “Because if you puke in my car I'll rip your throat out.”

A smile tugged on Stiles lips at the threat. Gruff and rude and bone dry.

* * *

 

  
Why did Derek let him sleep so long if he knew they had a five hour drive ahead of them? Normally Stiles loved long car rides, but long car rides in awkward silence were not his forte. Actually, any kind of silence wasn't really his forte. Stiles was allowed to play DJ though, which almost made it bearable. That is, until Derek reserved the right to leave his phone in pieces on I-5 if he abused that power.

The first hour actually went well, but by the time hour two rolled around Stiles was bored with his playlist and dangerously close to attempting a real conversation. The beat he was tapping on the dashboard lost tempo when one of Derek's sturdy arms reached across him to pop open the glove compartment.

“That black case has Laura's CD's in it. Don't play any of the ones from the back.”

Stiles reached in and pulled out a small CD wallet, each page holding two discs side by side. He fingered through the plastic sleeves with the same care one would give an old album, taking time to soak in the different bands and genres represented on each page. The last few sleeves held plain silver discs with a different name scrawled in sharpie across each one – Memorial CD’s. Suddenly this felt private, like he was intruding on Laura's memories, on Derek's.

“Stop it. I wouldn't have told you about it if it bothered me. Now pick something and put it on.”

Stiles nodded and thumbed through the pages again, stopping when a familiar name caught his eye.

“Anything?” He asked innocently.

“I don't care,” Derek huffed out.

Stiles smiled wide as he pushed the disc in and turned up the volume.

_“So I'll tell you what I want, what I really really want!”_

“STILES!”

“You said anything!”

* * *

  
The sign for Exit 76/Wolf Creek passed by and Derek merged into the exit lane, followed by an immediate turn down Coyote Creek Road. There was a joke here, Stiles was sure of it. They followed the dark winding road until they came upon a hidden driveway. Dense trees surrounded them, shielding any light the moon could have provided, until the path finally opened up into a clearing where a cabin sat back on a small hill. It was less Davy Crockett and more Better Home & Gardens, but Stiles should have expected that.

 

Quiet houses always bothered Stiles, every gust of wind or settling board amplified in the silence. But there was something about how warm the place felt, how the burgundy couch clashed with the blue armchair, and none of the wood was close to the same color, it reminded him of home.

There was a large staircase that lined the right side of the room and Stiles knew before he put his foot down that every step would squeak obnoxiously. It was after midnight, so he didn't expect Derek to give him the full tour, but turning a damn light on wouldn't hurt anybody. Dumb luck was the only reason Stiles didn't trip on those last few steps and end up eating Derek's back.

The first door on the right led to a simple room with a large center window, which allowed enough light in to give the less gifted eyes a chance to acclimate.

“You can stay here,” Derek explained, dropping the duffel bag on the white bed, “But my room is right across the hall. I can hear you in here.” His disapproving stare made it clear what he was trying to say.

“Dude, you're not my first werewolf,” Stiles laughed, “Scott beat you to that conversation by about three years.” Anyone else might have been embarrassed by the subtle talk of masturbation, but Stiles wasn't anyone else. Derek looked uncomfortable though, which prompted Stiles to wink suggestively at the big prude. The eye roll that followed could have won an award for best dramatic scene and Stiles told him so before Derek disappeared behind his own door.

“Goodnight, Derek!” Stiles called out.

“Go to sleep, Stiles!”

And for the first time in months, he was actually able to.

 

 

* * *

 

The screams coming from across the hall made Derek's hair stand on end. Terror and grief rendered the air thick enough to choke him, but the screams were truly unimaginable. Instinct took over and he found himself busting into the room, Alpha-faced and ready to take on the intruder, but this was not a threat he could handle with violence.

Stiles was thrashing around in the white cotton sheets, a layer of sweat making his skin glisten in the silver light. Derek had seen how bad his nightmares could get. He had watched Lydia cry with him for countless nights, had watched John struggle to restrain him after Lydia left, but if he was being honest, he had no idea how to help Stiles himself.

A choked sob broke the fear that had Derek frozen in the doorway and he quickly made his way to the edge of the bed, scooping Stiles up into his lap. He tried to mimic the way Laura used to rock him when she would find him in this state, but he knew his movements were stiffer than hers had been, more cautious.

“Stiles! Wake up, come on!” Derek demanded, trying to snap the boy out of unconsciousness. The strength in which it took to restrain Stiles was almost impressive, had it not been discovered under these circumstances, plus his skin was feeling feverish. Eventually Stiles's body went limp though, save for the quiet convulsions that rocked through his thin frame, leaving Derek's arm suspiciously wet.

“Hey, it's alright...” He whispered, cradling Stiles's head to his chest. By the time the tears stopped and his breathing evened out both of their eyes had drifted shut, leaving the pair tangled in an embrace that wreaked of desperation and misery. When Stiles woke up the next morning Derek still hadn't let go.

* * *

  
Waking up with a face full of Derek Hale was bordering on wet dream territory, except that Stiles's face was sticky with half dried tears and there were probably a good amount of snot stains on Derek's shirt. It was likely that no two days had ever been more embarrassing for him, but at least Derek wasn't the chatty type. Maybe when they got back to Beacon Hills they could pretend this never happened and nobody would ever have to know how Stiles got so drunk that Derek was forced to take care of him while he puked like a baby, or how he cried so hard that Mr. Sourwolf himself felt the need to comfort him.

Mortified at his behavior, Stiles tried to free himself from the ironclad grip the sleeping man had secured him in, but it only prompted Derek to groan and roll over, effectively pinning him to the mattress. A nervous laugh escaped his lips just before a loud bang sounded from downstairs, causing Stiles's heart to jump. His mind happily supplied him with the top ten deadliest creatures that could be down those steps, everything from ax wielding murderer to Satan himself.

“It's just Rebecca,” Derek mumbled, face buried in the sheets.

“Oh, right, Rebecca! Of course I know who that is! I just forgot she was coming over to bang the cabinets around this morning,” Stiles mocked, hands flailing in a gesture that clearly said he needed more information.

The grumpy alpha reluctantly pushed himself off the bed, clearly not happy with being awake just yet, as he explained, “She's the emissary for the Leikam pack. This is their territory.”

“The Lycan pack? Really? In Wolf Creek? What, are they the Remus Lupin of the real world?”

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration and pulled Stiles to a stand by his collar before leading the way to the kitchen.

“It's Leikam, Stiles. And she made coffee, so shut up.” Well, someone wasn't a morning person.

* * *

 

The kitchen was bright and open, sun filtering in through the trees and casting a green hue on the room, and sitting on the counter next to the freshly brewed coffee was a woman no older than twenty. She didn't look up from where she was braiding her sandy hair when she greeted the boys familiarly.

“I see the two of you finally managed to get out of bed.”

Derek paid her no mind as he moved through the kitchen to fetch two mismatched coffee cups.

“Rebecca,” He said in lieu of hello, “This is Stiles. Stiles Stilinski.” It was more formal an introduction than Stiles had been expecting, and he knew he was missing something when Rebecca's eyes went wide and she smiled mischievously. Derek interrupted whatever she was going to say with a pointed look before turning to ask Stiles how he wanted his coffee. He never got an answer, but they both knew he didn't need one.

“So...Becs...not that I don't appreciate people who make me coffee, but why are you here? Is this normal protocol or something? I don't remember our emissary ever trying to induce heart attacks at nine in the morning.” Stiles tried to keep it casual, but it was hard to ignore the itch she sparked in him. There was something about her that put him on edge, made him feel like he was forgetting something important.

Derek snapped his name in warning, but Rebecca shooed him off, obviously not taking this whole thing as seriously as he was.

“Yeah, it kinda is protocol. Well, not that scaring you bit, sorry about that. I'm supposed to come by and invite you guys to dinner tomorrow night – which, by the way, six o'clock, Derek – but I also couldn't pass up the opportunity to meet this 'friend' of Derek's.” Her golden eyes sparkled at Derek with all the viciousness of a sister when she teased him, “What was it you called him on the phone? Handsome? Heavenly?” Derek threw a dish towel at her, making her squeal.

“Human. I called him human,” he ground out, but there was no trace of bitterness. It was obvious they were once very close, their banter reminding Stiles of Scott and himself. An ache settled in his chest at the thought of Scott. Stiles hadn't been home for two days and not a peep from the guy, which meant he hadn't bothered checking on him since school let out. There was once a time where they could pinpoint each others location down to the room. Now Scott wouldn't even get the state right.

Stiles hadn't realized he spaced out until Rebecca hopped off the counter and walked toward the backdoor, whatever she had been saying to Derek having completely missed Stiles's ears.

“I know I don't have to tell you, but don't go running through the woods just yet. And Stiles,” she cooed, “It really was a pleasure to meet you.”

 

* * *

 

“Derek!” Stiles shouted, “Why are there half eaten boxes of Raisin Bran in the kitchen? Who even eats Raisin Bran?”

Derek came out of the small bathroom tucked next to the stairs with a towel around his neck, looking more like a god than Stiles's blood pressure could handle. He positioned himself on the door frame, signature eyebrow raised in amusement,“Rebecca eats Raisin Bran.”

Stiles squinted like he didn't understand, so Derek moved to grab two bowls and sat them on the table, pouring some of the offending cereal into each of them, before explaining.

“Being the only human in a pack can get overwhelming, and when you're an emissary you need to have a clear mind at all times. When Rebecca was appointed she was still very young. Most of her training was actually done on these grounds because of the strength of the druid who raised this property. So she stays here a lot, I guess it keeps her focused.” Derek's tone made it obvious that he was repeating an explanation that had been given to him before, like the passing down of an old folktale.

Stiles dropped his forehead to the table and groaned before pointing at Derek and saying seriously, “Okay, dude, house rule: No talk of druids, magic, or any other aneurysm inducing creatures before _at least_ ten-thirty. My brain is still in sleep mode. Does not compute.”

Breakfast was finished in silence after that, and Stiles went upstairs to shower and get himself cleaned up. He might not have werewolf scent, but he knew he still wreaked of whiskey and probably vomit. The water had barely shut off when his phone started vibrating on the porcelain sink, the screen lighting up with the Sheriff's picture. Ugh, he was not ready to have this conversation yet.

“Hey, Dad...” He answered sheepishly, bracing himself for the lecture he totally knew he deserved.

“Hey, Kiddo. How's Oregon?” Well, he didn't sound angry....yet.

“It's okay, I guess. I'm just getting out of the shower now. Listen, Dad, I'm sorry -”

“No,” his dad cut him off, “I'm sorry, Stiles. I knew you were in a bad place and I shouldn't have left you alone. I think Derek had a point when he said you needed to get out of Beacon Hills. It's hard for a wound to heal when the scab keeps getting ripped off. If nothing else, I understand that.”

“Dad...” Stiles breathed, the empty hole his mother had left cutting off any other words. Damn it, this was worse than a lecture. Understanding Dad was much more upsetting than Angry Father.

His dad cleared his throat and tried for a more light tone, “So, where did you end up, anyway?”

“Wolf Creek. Yeah, I know, the irony,” Stiles laughed, but his dad got unusually quiet.

“Yeah, I know where it's at. That's where your mother was working when I met her.” Stiles knew the story like a favorite book. His mom was working as an art appraiser and had only come to Beacon Hills for the weekend on business when she met his dad in town and decided to stay forever. Stiles had just always assumed she was coming from Seattle, where she grew up.

It was silent for a moment, neither one of them really wanting to take that trip down memory lane. It wasn't that they didn't like to reminisce about Claudia, they just couldn't reminisce together.

“Hey, while you're there you should see if that museum she worked for is still around. It was a little hole in the wall – Lancott, or Leikraf –”

“Leikam?” Stiles offered up before he could think better of it.

“Yeah! That's it! They were a real pain when your mom left, but she always talked about going back one day.”

Stile's face blanched as he clenched his phone, shaking his head in denial. There was no way his mom had been mixed up with all this werewolf business. There was an innocent explanation for all of this, he was sure. It's possible that the Leikam pack really did own a museum in town that had hired his perfectly human mother as an appraiser. It's possible that it's not even the same family! His dad just got the names mixed up, she never even drove through Wolf Creek.

Stiles came flying down the stairs two at a time, eyes wide in a panic as he tried to deny the truth his father unknowingly unearthed. Derek was sitting slumped on the couch, newspaper abandoned on the coffee table. His shoulders were tense, and there was no doubt in Stiles's mind that he heard that conversation.

Stiles white knuckled the handrail and called Derek's name, but the man wouldn't look up.

“Did you know?” Stiles ground out, trying desperately to mask the tremble in his voice.

Derek averted his stare, and for a second it seemed like he wouldn't answer, but Stiles caught the briefest of nods and saw, rather than heard, him whisper, “ _Yes._ ”

 


End file.
